The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum (A Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Mystery) (22 page)

“Yeah, but how did she get inside the museum? And why was she there?”

“I suspect she let herself inside. Michael had a key. She could have gotten it from him—who knows why? They were a couple at the time and Christy said they were engaged. Maybe he gave her the key to return to Adele, or maybe Dieter let her in.”

Mason grunted. “My advice? Stick to your
nineteenth-century
murder and let the cops take care of this one.”

“But one of the cops in charge blames me for ruining her youth and is out for payback. They already arrested Adele once. The police are looking for the easy answer, not the correct one.”

Below me, a woman with a large orange duffel bag approached on the sidewalk.

“There’s Grace,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

I hurried down the stairs and let her inside the museum. We went over the ground rules, which hadn’t changed (stay out of the tea room), and I returned upstairs. Mason sat on his black leather couch, his bare feet on the coffee table, a plate of general chicken and white rice on his lap.

He took a swig of Tsingtao from the bottle. “The spring rolls were a nice touch.”

“You didn’t eat them all?” I did a double take, scanning the pile of white boxes for the spring rolls. I love spring rolls.

He chuckled. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I stuck to my share.”

“Good.” I piled my plate with food. Cracking apart a pair of wooden chopsticks, I joined him on the couch.

“So, Nancy Drew, what’s next in your investigation?”

“You’ve given me an idea. I think … I’ve figured out how to set a trap for the killer.”

He sat up. “I meant what was next in the
nineteenth-century
investigation. You can’t seriously—”

“I’m serious as a heart attack. It will be perfectly safe.”

I had no idea how wrong I would be.

twenty-four

Sleepy-eyed, yawning, I dragged
myself from my bed. Keeping me awake when I want to go to sleep is the quickest way to infuriate me, and last night’s ghost hunt had been punishing. I felt torn. The extra cash wasn’t really worth it, but Grace’s group promoted the hunts, and that meant PR for the museum.

I stumbled around the kitchen, squinting at the sunlight sparkling off the appliances. As Mason had pointed out last night, another murder (mine) at the museum would also be good PR, but that didn’t make it a good idea. But when I fleshed out my plan, he admitted he couldn’t see the harm as long as there was a free meal in it for him.

He was humoring me.

I didn’t care. My plan was brilliant.

I slipped into jeans and a soft sweater and left for the Paranormal Museum.

GD sat by the door, meowing. It was breakfast he wanted, not my company, but guilt stabbed me for abandoning him last night. I poured cat food into his metal bowl and freshened his water. Rubbing my hands, I turned on the heat.

Last night I’d checked to make sure the ghost hunters had left things in good condition. But I speedwalked through the museum anyway, checking for anything out of place. The creepy dolls didn’t look any less ghoulish in daylight. The Fortune Telling Room appeared undisturbed.

I aimed the planchette on the Ouija board to YES and headed for the main room. In the doorway, a wall of cold struck me. My feet stumbled and dragged to a halt.

The cat looked up from his bowl.

A blanket of quiet fell, smothering the outside sounds of cars, pedestrians, birds. The silence buckled my knees, thickened the air. The museum seemed to fold inward, listening, waiting.

It was happening again. What “it” was I didn’t know, but I wasn’t scared. Whatever was happening felt cold, yes, but also desperate, desolate. A woman sobbed, and I wasn’t sure if the sound had come from within me or without.

Something slipped from the top of the counter, and sounds rushed back. A bicycle bell. A shout. The swish of car tires. The paper fluttered to the floor.

Trudging across the room, I stooped, picked it up, knowing what it would be. Cora and Martin McBride stared grimly from their portrait. The frame on the opposite wall hung empty.

“I believe you didn’t kill Martin,” I said in a low voice. “But I don’t know what you want me to
do
about it.”

GD buried his head in the bowl, and the sound of his needlelike teeth breaking kibble resumed.

I glanced out the window to make sure that reality outside was proceeding as usual. Two women huddled on the sidewalk, looking hopefully at the museum door.

Feeling a sudden need for human company, I opened early and sold them tickets. I reviewed my inventory. It was complete. With the exception of some of the antiques in the Fortune Telling Room—and they were big exceptions—the other objects held little financial value. I could afford to buy the museum.

And yes, I wanted to.

I didn’t want to work for someone else again. When I’d been overseas, I’d been far enough away from HQ to have some measure of autonomy, independence. I wanted that back. I wanted to live here, in my hometown. I wanted a business of my own.

Adele swished through the door. Her pink
alligator-skin
heels clicked on the checkerboard tiles. A
cream-colored
tulip skirt fluttered about her bare legs. She buttoned her Jackie Kennedy–style jacket. “Brrr. It’s cold in here!”

“I think it’s the concrete floors from the tea room—they’re a natural icebox.”

“Dieter said he’d get started on the flooring next week,” Adele said. “Soon they’ll be covered in bamboo and throw rugs.”

“Have you given any thought to the bathroom issue we talked about?” I asked.

“Some.”

Roger nudged open the door behind her, a box filled with tiny cans of paint in his arms. He grunted. “Where do you want this?”

“Just put it on the counter for now,” Adele said.

“You’ve got your lawyer acting as a bellhop?” I asked. “Is he charging by the hour?”

Roger wiped his palms on his slacks. “I was passing by and wanted to see how the remodel was going. What can I say? I’m nosy.”

“Roger owns a slew of commercial properties,” Adele said. “His advice has been invaluable. And he recommended Dieter.”

“About Dieter,” I said. “I was wondering if I could buy his services on Monday and Tuesday? He said two days is all it would take to convert the Creepy Doll Room into a gallery space and do some work in here as well. I’ve even got an exhibit lined up. I know it would be taking time away from your remodel, but of course I’ll—”

Adele waved away my concerns. “He’s yours. He’s finished the bathrooms, and there’s been a delay in shipping some of the supplies, so it’s going to be a light week for him anyway.”

“Thanks. I’m going to do a complete
clear-out
of the doll room and reorganize the rest of the space.”

She eyed me hopefully. “Does that mean—?”

A young couple walked through the door. Relieved, I turned to deal with them. Scheduling Dieter’s work on the gallery had little
to do with my future plans for the museum, and everything to do with my plans to catch a killer. What can I say? I’m a multitasker.

By the time I’d finished answering the visitors’ questions, Roger and Adele had disappeared into the tea room with the paint.

I called Dieter.

“Yeah?”

“Adele has said it’s okay for you to work on the museum Monday and Tuesday,” I said. “Are you still up for it?”

“Yeah.”

“Bill me directly.”

“Okay.”

Hanging up, I called Sam to give him the news, hoping for more enthusiasm. I got it.

“Really?” he said. “We can? That’s terrific!”

I moved the receiver away from my ear. “I’m looking forward to it too.”

“Can I help?”

If he helped, it would ruin my plan to catch the killer. “Aren’t Monday and Tuesday workdays for you?”

“Oh. Yeah. You’re right.” Then Sam’s voice brightened. “I can come over today to help with the
pre-remodel
clean out.”

“No, but thanks.”

“But—”

“No.” My cunning plan depended on my suspect not having access to the museum until I was ready.

Like I said—brilliant.

“Oh well,” Sam said. “That’s still great news. Hey, I’ve got to go, but let’s talk promotion for my showing soon!” He clicked off.

I was marinating in smugness when Harper strolled through the door.

She gave me a cheery wave. “Hey, girl! Adele asked me to drop by and give her my opinion on paint colors.”

Why hadn’t Adele asked my opinion on the paint colors? I pointed with my pencil toward the tea room. “She’s still in there with Roger.”

“Thanks.” Harper tilted her head to the side. “Something’s different.”

“Not really.”

“Can’t you feel it? That sense of … I don’t know. Waiting for something to happen.”

I shifted on my seat. It creaked beneath me. “That’s strange. I was thinking the same thing when I opened the place up this morning.”

“Then you feel it too?”

I shrugged. “I thought I did, but not anymore.”

“Maybe you’ve just gotten used to it. Has something changed?”

“Not yet, but Dieter and I are going to turn the Creepy Doll Room into a gallery space on Monday and Tuesday, and do some work here in the main room as well.”

She knit her brows. “A renovation can disturb spirits.” She shook her head. “But you haven’t done anything here yet, so that can’t be what’s caused the change.”

“Harper? Is that you?” Adele shouted from next door.

“Duty calls.” Harper flashed a grin and disappeared into the tea room.

Rummaging in the drawer beneath the register, I found a piece of faded yellow construction paper. In thick, black felt pen, I wrote,
Closed for Renovations, Monday & Tuesday
. Even though the museum was always closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, the sign was part of my plan.

I taped it in the window beside my tackiest museum “award.”

Roger wandered out of the tea room, a pained expression on his face. “This is why I hire people for this sort of work.” He gave an approving nod to the apple on my desk. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Sketching a wave, he left.

I wished I had some nachos.

Adele and Harper sauntered into the museum.

I swiveled toward Adele. “Why don’t you want my opinion about the paint colors?”

She rolled her eyes. “You run a paranormal museum.”

“That doesn’t mean all my taste is in my mouth.”

“Harper and I thought we’d have lunch here,” Adele said, “and give you a break. Unless you’d like to stay for lunch, in which case, we’re ordering Thai.”

I grabbed my purse before they could change their minds. “Thanks. I’ve got an errand to run.”

“That meeting with Ladies Aid?” Adele said.

“Why are you meeting with Ladies Aid?” Harper asked.

“I’m not. I mean, I am, but not right now. Enjoy your lunch!” I hustled out the door and down the street.

The Historical Association was in a
white-painted
Victorian at the edge of San Benedetto’s version of Old Town. I walked up the porch steps and into a cool hallway. Sunlight from the window above the door glinted off wood floors, and the scent of lemon polish hung heavy in the air. To the right was a closed wooden door marked
Office
.

I knocked.

“Come in,” a woman trilled.

I went inside.

A
white-haired
woman looked up and smiled. She wore a tight fuchsia sweater, which had an embroidered spray of lilacs over her left breast pointing toward her heart. “What can I do for you?”

I extended my hand. “My name is Madelyn Kosloski. I think we spoke on the phone.”

“Miss Kosloski! Thank you so much for your donation. I’m Harriet Jones, and I enjoyed the research. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to turn up more.”

“Is your library open to the public today?” I asked. “I was thinking of broadening my search to get a better sense of what was happening in San Benedetto during that period.”

She rose and walked around the desk. “I’d be happy to help you find what you’re looking for.” She took me down the hall to a room with bay windows that overlooked a lush garden. Bookshelves and wooden filing cabinets lined the walls. A plain walnut table anchored a floral rug in the center of the room. The room smelled, oddly enough, of cherry pipe tobacco, the same kind my father had smoked, and the memory walumphed me in the gut.

“Most of our materials are organized by date,” she said.

“Oh? Yes.” I struggled to reorganize my thoughts. Part of me wished ghosts did exist and I could see them. I’d give anything to speak to my father again. But I didn’t like thinking of him as a disembodied spirit floating aimlessly through the world. If anyone deserved to go straight on to a better place, he did.

Harriet gave me a quizzical look. “Let me show you our archives.” She led me to a wooden case with labeled drawers. A phone rang in the distance. “Oh! Excuse me!” She bustled from the room.

I pulled open a drawer labeled
1895–1900
. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but soon I was sucked in by
black-and
-white photographs of old San Benedetto. Dirt roads and wagons. Men (and a few women) on horseback. Most of the pictures from the 1890s were of buildings rather than people. I squinted at a picture of what appeared to be a large wooden warehouse.

“How are you doing, dear?” Harriet asked over my shoulder.

I jerked, startled. Her breath smelled like peppermint schnapps. “I was trying to make out the name on this warehouse.”

“Oh, that’s no warehouse. That’s the Donaldson feed mill.”

I flipped the photograph over. The date read 1902. “The old McBride mill?”

“Yes. As you know, Martin died in 1899. Zane Donaldson took over the mill after Cora’s death.”

Right. He’d gotten it when the town council seized the land. “He owned a newspaper, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He owned several businesses and was a town councilman.” Harriet snapped her fingers. “I know what you might enjoy.” She toddled to a bookcase and ran a gnarled finger along the spines. “Would you like to see some maps of old San Benedetto? I believe the feed mill is in here.”

She drew out an oversized book with a red leather binding, laid it on the table, and opened it. “This is from 1890. A bit earlier than the trial, but I don’t think the town changed much between then and 1899.”

I came to stand beside her, watching her flip the pages of maps inked in soft pastels.

My new friend pointed to a pink square by a line of railroad tracks. “There’s the mill.”

I bent for a better look, read the neat print. “That says ‘McBride-
Donaldson Mill.’ They were partners?” I hadn’t known there was a close relationship between the two men.

“Yes, and then they had a falling out in … around 1895, I think.”

That might explain why Martin had gotten drunk and attacked Donaldson in his office. Bad blood.

“Wait.” Harriet raised a crooked finger and pulled open another file cabinet. She thumbed through it and drew out a binder, which she opened on the table. “I thought so! Oh, I should have found this for you sooner.”

She tapped a yellowed,
type-written
page. “Years ago a genealogist did some research on the Donaldson family. There’s an interesting little
write-up
on Zane. He was quite the rogue. According to the story, Martin bought Zane out of his share of the partnership, all according to the contract. But Zane didn’t want to be bought out. He wanted the mill, and he brought in a group of men to physically take it. It didn’t work, and his men were driven off.”

“You’re kidding. How could Zane have believed that would work?”

“It might have. The sheriff wasn’t likely to interfere with a town councilman. If Zane had gotten control of the mill, well, possession is nine tenths of the law.” She pointed to the open map in front of me. “There’s Cora’s house.”